Father Raymond says sacrilege is living a lie—Well, that’s what I’m doing—pretending on the outside, and dying on the inside.
I ask him, “If I made a bad confession, Father, would all my other confessions be just that—a sacrilege—a lie?”
“Ah, Jamie—we have to rely on the grace of God for that.”
“But how can it be made right, Father? —It’s like beads on a rosary—you pick up one and all the rest are attached.”
“You’ve given into scrupulosity, my Boy—such a tender conscience.”
He wants me to come back and confess to him every Saturday—he says, “God’s hand’s on you, Jamie.” Little does he know, there is a hand on me, but it’s not God’s.
Rain is falling—miserable weather for Advent. The church seems cavernous and filled with shadows.
Not many show up for solemn Vespers—but the candles must be lit—my job and Jimmy Dunn’s, but he’s in the sacristy sipping the communion wine.
I assist Father Raymond and finally, when enough people shuffle in, we begin.
Deus, in auditorium meum intende. O God, come to my assistance.
And so begins the chanting and responses—the liturgy of the word.
The voices echo hollowly and I imagine bats massed above us in the dark recesses of the ceilings—or demons with scales and blackened wings, hovering not far out of reach.
I can still hear Father Raymond whispering in the confessional box:
“Satan’s not in Hell right now, Jamie—he’s free to roam the earth. He may not be below us, but above us—after all, he’s the Prince of the Power of the Air.”
Near the end of Vespers, Mr. Quinn, the caretaker, summons Father Raymond. He’s called away to administer the sacrament—The Anointing of the Sick.
“Be sure to put out all the candles, Jamie and put away the vestments.”
“I will, Father.”
He asks me because Jimmy Dunn is unreliable. He knows that. I feel proud.
I wait after the liturgy, staying until all the stragglers leave. Then, I tidy the pews, put away the prayer books and snuff the candles.
The church building is even darker and more solemn. A peal of thunder rumbles across the sky.
The stained glass windows are black as basalt. A flare of blue lightning briefly illumines Christ, The Good Shepherd, before His figure lapses back into darkness.
I genuflect before the tabernacle where Christ lives—the red sanctuary lamp is always burning as a symbol of his presence behind the golden doors.
Thunder rumbles again and I hurry to the sacristy to put away the vestments—and that’s when I pass the counselling room off the cove chapel.
I hear whispers and recognize Monsignor Coughlin’s voice.
“Thank you for coming Lass—it’s a wild night out there.”
“It is, Father—I was so frightened.”
“Were you, girl? Come here and let me warm you.”
I peek through the crack in the door and see Wendy Summers—she used to baby sit me. She’s sitting next to the Monsignor and he puts an arm around her waist and she leans her head on his shoulder.
“I’m not sure I should be here, Father.”
“But you confessed your love, Lass—it’s only natural.”
He kisses her and begins unbuttoning her blouse.
“Will God be angry, Father?”
“No Lass, don’t fear his displeasure—I prayed. He didn’t say a word.”
I begin to tremble and can’t breathe. I have to get out.
Quietly, I creep back to the sanctuary and hide among the pews.
A great wind outside is shuddering against the church walls. Then, the rains come and beat against the glass.
The smell of incense is heavy and sickens me—reminds me of death. I feel shut in—claustrophobic. I want so badly to run out into the night, but my coat is still hanging in the sacristy.
I’m trapped.
I sit listening to the moaning and gnashings of the wind—I think it’s the wind. I must drift off into sleep, because I hear the snap of a light switch and the sanctuary is plunged into darkness.
The outer door clangs shut and the church goes silent.
I peer out from my hiding place. The red sanctuary lamp is flickering—the candle fluttering softly and casting a dull light.
I steal down the aisle, past the cove chapel and the counselling room and enter the sacristy. I feel for the closet door, take my coat from the hanger and hurry toward the exit.
My heart’s beating in my ears and I feel nauseous. Once on the street, I walk home slowly, letting the rain soak me, wash me—baptize me.
Afterwards, I lie—confession after confession—I conceal the truth.
Their sin—his sin and her sin becomes my sin.
Bless me Father, for I have sinned…
My silence suffocates me. Father Raymond raises his hand and blesses me.
“Ego te absolvo. For your penance say a decade of the Rosary and now make a good a good act of contrition.”
There’s a lump in my throat. I have lied to God again. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you.”
And I am—heartily sorry—and ashamed.
I dream at night of demons with pitchforks and Monsignor Coughlin and Wendy roasting on open fires. I wake up in a cold sweat. I pee the bed.
I keep my secret and bear my suffering in silence. I avoid Mass—stop serving on the altar.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I have eaten of the tree of knowledge and my eyes have been opened. I stare at the stained glass windows with longing, but can’t go back to paradise.
Years pass. The Monsignor dies. Wendy marries and raises a family. Life goes on for all concerned.
I tell myself it’s not my fault—it’s not my guilt—but it is. I helped conceal another’s sin.
Now, I can’t even enter a church and the sight of a priest fills me with dread.
They say the fires of purgatory are the same flames as those of hell—the only difference being, you eventually get out.
I ask Father Raymond how long I would pay to expiate my sin—he grows thoughtful:
“Just imagine, Jamie,” he says, a far away look in his eyes.
“Picture a beach filled with sand. A gull comes by, takes a grain of sand in his beak and flies away. How long would it take to empty that beach?”
“It would take forever, Father.”
“And so it would…and so it would,” he whispers.
